by metroblue
(5/02/01)
We talked in the office loft, high above the New York
City streets, with nothing but the gentle glow of
computer monitors to light the room. An after-hours
meeting, both of us too busy for straight 9-to-5
workdays. I was torn between watching the snow
falling outside and peering closer at the incredible
graphics on the screen -- actual reality, or digital?
A true geek's choice! Either would be better than
staring at him and finding myself lost once again.
Tall he was, and strong, with piercing blue eyes and a
tendency to wear black. Graceful hands, for such a
large man. Hands that could make a computer sing,
knowing hands, hands that could...oh crap...not again -- I
forced myself to pay attention.
"Functionality...ease-of-use...back-end schematics."
Sure. Whatever. I idly wondered how he'd look bent
over a chair. Tied up, maybe, with some of those
cables littering the office, or better, positions
reversed -- those hands firmly holding me in place,
cords precisely positioned. On a desk? No, too much
hardware. Perhaps on the couch in the corner.
I shifted in my seat, newly aware of the constriction
of the corset I wore -- one of a series, in black lace
this time. I wore them to remind me of my body, to
remind me of actual reality lest I become immersed in
digital. Too much time online, and one loses one's
flesh.
But damn...that corset was working overtime today.
"End-user...databasing." His voice began to overwhelm
me. I wanted to feel him, to hear his voice saying
other words, real words, not electro-jargon. How
would he sound reading poetry? I stretched, stood,
walked to the window. Watched the snow, and let it
cool me down -- soothe my thoughts.
I suddenly realized that he'd stopped speaking. I turned, to find him right behind me.
"Am I boring you?"
"Oh, no," I stammered. "The snow looked so
pretty...sorry. You were saying?"
"Well, take a look
at this." We walked back to the monitor. He began to
point at various items. Since I'm blind as a bat, the
only way I could follow him was to get closer to the
screen.
"Templates...throughput...workflow." Lost again, his
mouth too close to mine, words just syllables now. I
wanted to turn, turn my head just a bit, taste his
mouth. I wanted his hands, to feel them encircle my
waist, encase my wrists, touch my breasts through the
corset. To hurt my breasts, even -- so constricted,
tied, yet spreading, swelling, helpless. I wanted to
know what size his cock would be, to see him hard, oh,
to feel him slide.
I came out of my trance and noticed he was shaking.
"And then, at the bottom of the form..."
I noticed he was hard.
"You press the button that says..."
I could barely get the words out.
"That says?"
"Submit."
